Sam called Nigeria the other day, according to a surprise item on our phone bill. I am unaware that he has any friends in West Africa. Maybe he dialed the numbers randomly. Or maybe he was responding to one of those “I’m a former finance minster who needs to smuggle $20 million out of the country” emails.

Either way, what is clear is that, months shy of his third birthday, Sam’s capacity for creating chaos in our house is unprecedented.

It never occurred to his big sister Sophie, for instance, to push a footrest up to the kitchen counter and climb on up amongst the bottles, bowls and knives. Or partially pull the drawers out of a dresser and use them like ladder steps. Or hurl herself headfirst over the back of the sofa.

In her youth, Sophie’s ability to dismantle a room earned her the nickname Captain Destruct-O. Sam has officially inherited the designation, and taken it to a whole other level.

Twist an arm off his father’s prescription sunglasses? Sam does that. Dump out the dog food bin? Unfold a basket of folded clothes? Turn the washing machine off? Turn the washing machine on? Excavate the contents of the trash can? Yes, yes, yes, yes and yes, all do-able, maybe in the same afternoon.

Forget to clamp the child-proof lock on the kitchen cabinets? He’ll extract plates and cleaning products. Fail to dead-bolt the front door? He’ll let himself out. Leave a purse unattended on the floor? He’ll help himself to its contents, however personal they may be.

An extended silence portends trouble. He’s likely to be found wrapping himself in toilet paper or applying lipstick to his clothes and person.

One time he disappeared from the toy room of my uncle and aunt’s house in Metairie. Three adults joined the search. Eventually I found him in the master bathroom, with the door closed, turning on both knobs of a Jacuzzi tub.

That could have been bad.

On Thanksgiving, his grandmother let him sip juice from a wine glass. He clamped his teeth on the delicate lip of the glass and bit off a piece.

That, too, could have been bad.

He is small for his age, but makes up for it in volume and destructive capability. He apparently believes that Newton’s law of gravity requires further testing. He routinely chucks objects down the stairs and contemplates the result. Books, it seems, make especially fine projectiles.

At mealtime, he creates a debris field larger than the Titanic’s. He is a cracker addict and a cookie monster. Never have I seen him more content then when sitting in a pile of goldfish crackers, emptied onto the floor, munching away.

His relationship with his sisters has evolved accordingly. Until recently, Sophie regarded him as an easy mark, relieving him of toys and food she desired.

But now he fights back. If she steals his toy in the bathtub, he will whack her on the head or splash water in her face. He sometimes goes on the offensive, antagonizing her by crumpling her drawings or disrupting her games of Candyland.

And he has found a target of his own: Baby sister Celia, affectionately known as “Baby” in his parlance. He is fond of separating Baby from her pacifier. Given the opportunity, he will straddle her back and attempt to ride her. During play-pen tug-of-wars, he will pull on a disputed objected until she topples over, face-first.

He loves DJ Lance, the orange-clad ringleader of the Yo Gabba Gabba crew. Babysitters, not so much. He greets them with, “Bye-bye.” As in, “Nice to see you. Now don’t let the door hit you on the backside on your way out.”

He will seize some item of contraband – cell phone, permanent marker, glass – and scamper away, laughing like a possessed elf.

At night, he’ll unzip his footy pajamas all the way down to his navel, 1970s Elvis-style. Fold your arms or put your hands on your hips to scold him, and he’ll imitate you and grin. Posing with his arms crossed, chin down and mock scowl, he looks like a tiny white member of Run-DMC.

When he realizes he is in trouble for real, he hangs his head, devastated. After what seems like a prudent amount of time, he’ll reach up for a hug.

When it comes to redeeming himself, this kid is good. He will wrap his arms around your neck and hug indefinitely. I often arrive home from the office to find him maintaining a vigil, his face pressed against the glass of the door. He greets me with a squinty-eye grin and shouts of “Dada!”

It’s hard to stay mad at a little guy who calls you “Dada.”

During his most recent check-up, I ran down his list of offenses for the pediatrician, who has two young sons of her own. Her diagnosis? “It’s on like Donkey Kong.”

And the game won’t be over for a while.

Staff writer Keith Spera chronicles his parenting adventures in an occasional humor column called The Paternity Test. Read more at nola.com/family